


Wolf Therapy

by purplekitte



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Comfort Sex, Drinking to Cope, Drunk Sex, Group Sex, Hand Jobs, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-book Scene, Unremembered Empire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:26:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2519087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplekitte/pseuds/purplekitte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roboute Guilliman drinks with wolves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cross-posted from [tumblr](http://adepta-astarte.tumblr.com/post/95405925959/i-once-wrote-a-version-of-the-same-missing-scene)

Faffnr Bludbroder understood what was going on. It wasn’t difficult and he wasn’t stupid. Sometimes someone got so weighed down by responsibility and always doing the right thing that he decided purposefully to go out and make some bad decisions. Of course, take a straight-laced guy like Guilliman who’d never done anything fun or out of line in his life and you could see he had no idea how to act out. He’d probably read that people got drunk and disorderly at times like this in one of those many books of his and was hoping he’d figure out the details as he went along.

‘Is this fun? Are we having fun?’ Guilliman’s words weren’t slurred, but they were clipped like he was thinking about it too hard, like he’d heard you were supposed to slur your words and he was still trying to figure out if he was doing something wrong because he wasn’t.

‘Yes, we are.’ Quaffing mjod wasn’t fun. Not in and of itself. It was who you were doing it with. Guilliman may or may not have figured that out already. More importantly, Guilliman was in a mood to insistently keep throwing himself in the direction of fun through bad decisions until he caught it, so it was best to humour him before things got too out of control. He’d had the Alpha Legion yesterday and there’d be Dark Angels tomorrow. They might be the Emperor’s executioners, but then there was just being unbrotherly and there was ignoring hospitality obligations where they were due.

‘Have another, blue boy,’ Kuro Jjordrovk pressed on him.

‘Show more respect,’ Faffnr corrected him.

‘Lord of the blue boys,’ Kuro amended before continuation the story he was boisterously repeating for his brothers, ‘Then his teeth went flying everywhere, and the other ork said, “Great, yur rich now, but whudda gonna spend it on?”’

Guilliman looked at the mjod, sniffed if (though whether he smelled more or less than a Wolf, Faffnr didn’t know), made a face, then swallowed it as quickly as possible to keep from tasting.

‘What do you even like about this?’

‘What else would you drink, the brine in the water?’

Guilliman sighed long-sufferingly. He tried to relax but it didn’t ease the tension deeply coiled in him and he winced minutely at the pull of his injuries. Faffnr was hardly sentimental, but he did feel sorry for him on some level; watching his total lack of success here induced the kind of pity of looking upon something half-formed and misshapen. He wondered if Russ himself could do better.

‘Let me get this one home to his bed.’

Accompanied by the whoops and hollers of his brothers, it wasn’t hard to get an arm under Guilliman and lift him. The primarch was much larger than he was, but he’d lugged around larger mammoth carcases before and only being drunk rather than dead he got some help from uncoordinated feet.

‘I’m not sure if letting you drag me around will lead to more or less embarrassing rumours than if I were stumbling on my own.’

‘Blame your injuries.’

‘I shall. I don’t know how convincing I’ll be. Try to breath on everyone so they can’t smell mine.’

Faffnr accommodatingly belched at Guilliman’s guards, who were appropriately careful in confirming he was who he said he was even though he hadn’t been out of their primarch’s line of sight in hours. Their primarch had been wrong once.

Guilliman fell back on his bed after they were left alone as long as they didn’t make any too loud noises, but didn’t untangle himself from the arms supporting him first, pulling Faffnr with him. He wound up on his back with Faffnr straddling his chest, their faces plenty close enough to share mjod-flavoured breaths. He didn’t believe for a second that a primarch could be drunk enough for that to have been by accident.

Guilliman held his eyes for a moment, then another, giving him time to pull away that he didn’t take, then kissed him, wet, messy, clumsy. Faffnr wondered if he was a virgin.

‘You know, jarl, you don’t have to make all the decisions you’ll regret along with that hangover in the morning all at once.’ Never let it be said that wolves had no self-control or good counsel.

‘No, now is the best time to get it all out of my system, but you don’t have to keep humouring me if you don’t want to.’

Faffnr snorted. ‘Of course I want to. What kind of man would turn down a drink, a fight, or a wench?’

‘If you think I’m a woman, you will soon discover you are very mistaken.’

‘You don’t have a beard.’

He was met with a laugh and another sloppy kiss, rough with still healing scabs from all the damage he had taken that not even his primarch body had been able to repair yet.

Despite the teasing, he certainly had no intention of trying to dishonour Guilliman by treating him like a woman or thrall, and the primarch had made no show of pushing him down and making him submit so far in their acquaintance. This was between men, helping each other out the way men did.

His hands found the coarse texture of bandages under robes. Lots and lots of bandages. Some part of him wanted to be surprised even though he’d seen the extent of the damage earlier. Primarchs were still meat and blood, like everyone else.

It wasn’t like he was planning to undress him, planning to get all _intimate_. Just slip a hand under his waistband and hear an appreciative groan. He ran his fingers down hot flesh before closing his grip.

Guilliman bucked into his hand. He had a certain control that never left him, even when he chose to be jocular and friendly; the Wolf could see that it was a choice, calculations and analysis beneath the surface as surely as emotions and both just as true. He was allowing himself this because he wanted to and he was genuinely enjoying it, but he had surely overanalysed everything before letting the situation get this far and decided on his course of action with various tactical justifications.

His muscles had no give, but alcohol and regenerative hormones instead of combat ones worked to unwind the deep tension in them. He wasn’t making an obvious effort to keep quiet, he just was; maybe to him the slight hitches of breath and sharp gasps were wanton cries when he could have kept silent if he tried.

Faffnr found a good rhythm with his strokes and ran fingers over Guilliman’s balls, and the primarch’s hips twitched more and more erratically in response. He grinned, leaning close and watching the way Guilliman’s eyes closed for a moment and he twitched and arched as he came.

‘This is how you’d kill me.’ Despite his glazed eyes, Guilliman’s voice was all seriousness.

‘Aye.’ Of course it was. He hadn’t lied about why they’d been sent all along, and he wasn’t going to about it, as if it would work. His Legion wasn’t one of the ones with a reputation of fighting dirty, but it was all circumstantial. If you’re fighting for your honour, then you fight honourably, even at the cost of your life. If you’re hunting to eat, you stalk, you ambush, you separate your prey from its herd and gang up on it, you do anything as long as it ends with the blood of what you intended to kill on the snow.

‘Are you going to try to slit my throat now?’ Guilliman didn’t sound worried. Maybe overconfidence. Probably trust.

He’d have done it a few moments earlier if he had been going to, obviously. ‘Not tonight.’ Maybe some other. Maybe just like this and with lies and no warning of malicious intent until he struck. It was not that he wouldn’t. It was only that he still deemed the Lord of Macragge loyal to the Imperium and worthy of life. Maybe he could have done it just then and succeeded; he’d thought about it. Maybe. He nuzzled his neck, letting him feel fang against his jugular, but not biting down.

Guilliman allowed it for a moment, then flipped them. Even drunk and wounded, the primarch’s grip was something he could not break and he let Faffnr struggle against it until he gave up and forced the instinctive tension from his muscles. This man wasn’t seeking his submission, but he had no intention of being pushed further than he intended to give, and the wolf had better not forget that.

Satisfied he had made adequate show of dominance, Guilliman let a hand trail back down his body. His erection had definitely not flagged from the threats. Faffnr groaned contentedly at the warm, calloused palm slipping under his breeches and stroking. Whatever his experience before, he had definitely analysed Faffnr’s technique and was eager to try out his theoretical practically.

‘That’s good,’ he muttered, and damn it was, even in all the drunken, sloppy, messy glory between them. He smelled all wrong for being pack, but a primarch reeked of strength and masculinity and Faffnr was totally unabashed about _wanting_.

Guilliman looked deeply satisfied as Faffnr came in his hand, but still thinking, still analysing. He thought about kissing him but didn’t, because they weren’t lovers, weren’t anything but what they had been before and that was a sword of Damocles. Likewise, he shook his head to Guilliman’s offer to share his bed as too intimate. ‘I’ll sleep by your hearth. I’m not _your_ dog to have curled up at your feet.’

‘And you’d rather be out of arm’s reach when the hangover hits,’ Guilliman said, and from him it was a joke, and Faffnr barked a laugh.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-UE, Guilliman drags Lion to bed with him and his unofficial wolf harem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cross-posted from [tumblr](http://adepta-astarte.tumblr.com/post/95568755296/they-say-imitation-is-the-highest-form-of)
> 
> Not actually a sequel to the previous fic in terms of continuity, but to sirithy's [The Fenrisian Relaxation Therapy](http://sirithy.tumblr.com/post/95382745361/the-fenrisian-relaxation-therapy)

‘Get some rest, and see that he does too,’ was a request? order? Guilliman took easy from the Angel.

‘I should go back to the _Invincible Reason_ ,’ Lion countered as Guilliman led him along. He had thought at first Guilliman was bringing him to some sort of guest quarters, but this wing of the Residency was too lived in for that.

‘Nonsense, brother. I--we--need you here. Anything could happen. Curze could reappear from whatever dark hole he found for himself at any moment. Vulkan could mysterious awaken and go on another rampage. A bed that’s big enough for one primarch to be comfortable is going to be plenty big for two.’

The space in Guilliman’s bed was already taken up, in the Lion’s opinion, by a mass of Wolves. Fewer than there had been when he first arrived, and those that remained all showed signs of injury; recently set bones and barely scabbed over gashes. Guilliman didn’t push them out of the way to take possession of his own bed, but sprawled among them, in some cases on top of them. Guilliman had a word for each of them, seemed to know the whole pack by name and deed. In turn, they didn’t make room for him: they made room to rest a head or stray limb against him somewhere. Guilliman stroked a hand over scars new and old, the corner of his lips turned up fondly.

The Lion was beginning to suspect he’d misinterpreted Guilliman’s offer to share a bed with him to an embarrassing extent. He remembered Russ’ arm over his shoulder, his mjold flavoured breath against his face, the insinuations. Guilliman was still holding his wrist.

‘Brother?’

‘I thought we had a solid rivalry, and I’d hate to ruin that.’

Faffnr grinned up at him. ‘You did beat me. You can claim a forfeit from me if you’d like.’

‘You didn’t make me go to so much trouble to have you,’ Guilliman teased. Guilliman teasing, the future really was a fount of surprises. ‘I suppose I’m the one who owes you a favour now.’

Bo Soren said something incomprehensible through the bandages covering most of his face, whispers of air going through the tears in his cheeks and jaw, but Guilliman seemed to understand.

‘Are you calling him prettier than I am?” The Wolves indulged him by rolling their eyes. ‘I suppose you have a point.’ He smiled at the Lion.

The Lion had no idea what to do. He didn’t like the idea of being exposed, vulnerable, even in front of his brother, let alone the Wolves. Yet, he had to trust them.

‘Are you going to invite the Angel here next?’ he asked as he let Guilliman draw him down. The six Wolves shifted around him, Faffnr curling his chest against the Lion’s thigh and resting his head on his hip.

‘Yes, I intend to. The practical has been a good one, don’t give me that look Gudson, and we could all profit from it.’

The Lion knew he was tactically brilliant beyond compare, but Guilliman had the strangest ideas that so inexplicably brought him success. ‘Show me,’ he allowed, because he respected Guilliman more than most of their brothers, yet he had something the Lion’s pure reason and will didn’t grant him.

Guilliman leaned over to kiss him. The Wolves didn’t give them any illusion of privacy for the moment, instead pouncing on the Lion all the more, pressing against him through their clothes. Was someone chewing on his hair? He refused to be panting when Guilliman pulled back, but he had to consciously remind himself of that.

‘They want you. So do I. Care to deliver?’

This had to be what people meant when they likened desire to heat, because the temperature in the room seemed to have spiked, and it coiled in his chest and throat in a tight grip. ‘Do you expect less of me?’ he quipped back, automatically.

‘Going to neglect us, jarl?’ one of them asked Guilliman, taking what the Lion usually would have called ‘undue liberties’ with the Lord of Ultramar’s person if Faffnr hadn’t been nuzzling even more boldly between his own legs, then engaging in an impromptu wrestling match with one of his brothers over whose turn it was.

‘Have a turn with me too,’ he said, with the confidence of an order rather than an offer. The Wolves growled, as one, deep in their throats, eyes unfocused for a long moment before locking back on the two primarchs with a predatory gleam.

The Lion wasn’t used to letting things happen around him instead of taking charge, but he lacked experience in these matters, while the others moved easily with each other. He couldn’t bring himself to regret being able to stare as the Wolves groped and bit at each other, at the way Guilliman’s arms tightened around the Wolf he was holding to his chest and the sounds he made while others worked him open with fingers and tongues. People called him beautiful, but his brother was magnificent.

Then there were the bold touches across his own skin, the brush of tongue and scrape of teeth, and he did know well enough how to push someone down, especially when they were so eager to wrap their legs around him. They were soft with fat and fur that invited his fingers to press into flesh as he pressed into the warm bodies under him.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Guilliman, who managed to make ‘wanton’ look steady, look like it had been a rational decision, indulgent and content, welcoming, not holding anything back but never losing control even as his moans made sparks shoot down the Lion’s spine. On his back, legs spread, letting himself be mounted again and again.

Then it was the two of them. Not _just_ the two of them, because for all that the Wolves by all rights should have been worn out from receiving the attention of both of them, they quickly recovered enough to press a hand somewhere, anywhere apparently, just skin on skin with everyone they could reach. But it was Guilliman pulling him down onto him, Guilliman arching up into him.

‘Roboute...’

Guilliman’s blue eyes shined up at him with, what? Lust? Trust? Permission? He didn’t know, only that his control ran out and he moved against Guilliman with all his strength, force he’d carefully kept in check before because even Astartes were so fragile and breakable. Guilliman cried out under him, exultation rather than pain, pushing up into every thrust as the Lion slammed into him again and again.

Guilliman’s hand tangled in his hair and pulled him down into a wet, demanding kiss, and for some reason that was what made it all too much and he was coming hard, unwilling, or possibly unable, to pull away, to pull out of his brother as his whole body spasmed. For long moments afterwards there was only his heartsbeat loud in his ears and throbbing in his groin, the tight, hot embrace of Guilliman’s body around him, their sticky, sweaty bodies pressed together.

He didn’t want to move, despite the rational voice of his thought telling him he must be disgusting and need a shower, and Guilliman only dragged him closer. The mass of Wolves made themselves at home around and half on top of both of them in a vast pile of limbs that seemed to be mostly elbows and knees.

Just what did you say when you’d fucked everyone in the room, or been fucked by everyone present? Guilliman didn’t seem to find this as daunting a proposition as he did, because he yawn and pulled the Lion down so their cheeks rubbed together. ‘Go to sleep, brother. You’re among loyal allies and are welcome here.’

He couldn’t trust him completely, _couldn’t_ , but it was too late to run away from this, even if he’d known how.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guilliman meets Russ again, after the fall. [WIP]

He’d hardly been oblivious to the insinuations involved when Russ muttered, ‘You smell good’ while embracing him, but his brother hadn’t pressed further at the time. He’d wondered if that had been general purpose flirting about him that the Wolves were prone to, or a statement about what he smelled on him. He had showered a couple times since last he’d been in bed with the pack, wrapped around each other against the words ‘too late’ in their ears.

He didn’t mind finding it surprising to later discover Russ in his quarters without further warning. It was worth being surprised over. He wasn’t sure what else he was feeling, other than that he probably shouldn’t be. They weren’t ‘his’ pack; he had no claim over them really--if anything Russ did. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen them with primarchs other than himself, though he really didn’t want to think of that, didn’t want to be reminded with an intensity that called up memories even when his conscious mind and willpower said not to.

‘You could have gone somewhere else or asked before inviting yourself in,’ he said instead.

Russ didn’t turn back to look at him, though he did pull his teeth back from Faffnr’s throat enough to speak. ‘That was rude of me. I assumed the invitation was to the pack, not individuals, and I would not have left your bed cold and empty, not now.’

It was not like Russ to apologise, but from what Guilliman knew of Fenrisian hospitality law, it was a serious matter and he’d be entirely in the right taking insult from it. He didn’t, really. Not now. His practicals for the theoretical ‘now that Russ is here on Terra they’ll leave and go back to their own kind’ had all been deeply unsatisfying, but he’d been prepared for it, just one more loneliness in a galaxy that seemed devoid of anything but.

‘Make it up to me,’ he said, because going through his mind was, _Theoretical: I want to forget. No, I want none of this to have ever happened. I don’t want the weight of the galaxy to rest of my shoulders, or to likely as not start another war when my remaining brothers think I’m setting myself over them. But I will because someone has to and I don’t trust anyone but me to do it right, so I will give up ever last bond of friendship and brotherhood I have left. That is the undeniable ‘what is’ and what I have been pushed to. Practical: I want Russ to hold me. Just this once. I want to pretend and to have a memory for all those nights where it might be more of a comfort to replay than a source of pain._

Russ grinned because it was his habit to grin and the gesture came easily to his face, however much it didn’t reach his eyes, not anymore. ‘Make yourself at home. I thought these boys deserved a reward after having to deal with you for so long.’

It was easy to slip into the banter of Wolves. ‘I like to think I’ve taught them well. See for yourself.’

Bo Soren punched his shoulder affectionately, and Russ replied, ‘They’re blood of my blood. I wouldn’t expect less.’

They looked good together, Guilliman had to admit. All the small details he’d never noticed before until he had something to contrast it with, the sheer rightness of how they fit together. While he’d certainly gotten the pack whimpering and begging before, it was a different sort of submission than how Faffnr offered his throat up to Russ now. There was the obvious affection and trust there, yet he was absolutely sure the pack-leader would fight with his primarch as surely as he had Guilliman or any other if they had a disagreement until matters were settled.

Russ returned to what he’d been doing because he was hardly going to be so rude as to do otherwise, leaving Guilliman to strip down and make himself at home among the pack and their usual games of elbowing and licking. He watched Russ with Kuro Jjordrovk sucking on his shoulders (and watching over them) and Malmur’s wet mouth between his legs. He stroked Malmur’s hair appreciatively to show he was still paying attention, but everything faded to a prelude to Russ’ touch. He was too much a primarch to be overwhelmed by the presence of another one, but he wanted it, wanted it like he wanted back the touches of those he was never going to see again in this life and wanted it even if it came to the same end.


End file.
